


Prompt No.11 - Stitches

by orphan_account



Series: Hamilton Whumptober 2019 [11]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Blood and Violence, Gen, Gore, Graphic Description of Corpses, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Survivor Guilt, Vomiting, Whumptober 2019, could be read as platonic or romantic idc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 21:54:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21168473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After a gruesome battle, John and Gilbert meet up. But the realization hits that Alexander is with neither of them. It hits John hard. Only when Alexander is found alive is John overwhelmed with relief.For Whumptober 2019Prompt No.11 - Stitches





	Prompt No.11 - Stitches

**Author's Note:**

> Not me.

Chunks of gummy gore spattered the field in splotchy patches of black and brown, blood left to dry in the sun, to cool with the wind. Distantly, John heard inhuman wailing, heard the desperation and pain bleeding from everywhere, it seemed, echoing across the hellscape as soldiers writhed in the dirt, begging for mercy. People flew around in a flurry, some being carted in his direction without limbs, others running away and retching behind a tree. John himself nearly gagged at the sight of the body pile nearby, where the buzz of flies mirrored the buzzing he heard in his head, the numbness fluttering throughout his arms and legs. Maggots already began feasting on freshly severed parts, digging into the stringy tendons and muscles exposed.

Washington had ordered him to find his colonels, to find his generals, to find  _ anyone _ who had  _ any _ semblance of command. Already spattered in blood drops from head to toe, John had agreed. He had nodded numbly, set out to find Washington’s men but, also, to find  _ his _ men. To find Gilbert. To find Alexander. But the further he walked, the more pale his face went, the more tired and weak he felt, the more exhausted his brain became as he stared the Devil’s incarnation down across the fields.

As he stumbled forward, he tripped over someone. He already readied his apology, twisting around, only to find he kicked a torso -  _ just the torso _ \- the rest of the poor man blown to pieces, likely scattered across the whole southern half of the battlefield. John stared, blinking slowly, as the image seeped into his brain, deeper, deeper into the blackness where his sanity hid from the nightmare. He stared at the still oozing blood, watching as it dribbled out around the white of the shattered bone in what would have been the soldier’s left arm. Inside, past the tattered uniform and bubbling red blood, John could make out the curve of an organ - the heart - as it inched closer and closer to the hole in the man’s left rib cage. With a wet pop, it unceremoniously squelched, then and, slipping out of its sac, it flopped onto the dirt, unbeating, going grey already.

John reeled, spitting up vomit. His arm wrapped around his stomach as he coughed up more sick, narrowly avoiding his shoes. He turned to run, to help what was left of his sanity crawl away from the picture as he sought out some sort of reprieve, but there was no reprieve. There was nowhere to hide where there weren’t any bodies and the realization had John throwing up harder, dry heaving, tears in his eyes.

A warm hand fell to his shoulder, startling him. Though, while lost in such a violent disembodiment from himself, John figured it looked more like a weak jump rather than a full-bodied jerk. His watery gaze found Gilbert’s warm face and forced smile, and John grinned. He didn’t care if his throat stung or his body went cold from the disassociation. “Laf,” he rasped. “I’m glad to see you alive.”

The battle had broken out so quickly and so violently that John could barely keep his footing in check, let alone his men, or his dearest friends. He remembered before the battle, sitting across from Alexander at their campsite, mushing his gruel around with his spoon, making exotic facial expressions that made Alexander twist with laughter, commenting now and then about how he should be in a Shakespeare, not on the battlefields. Then, he had thought the day would be more calm trekking and more talking, more getting to know one another even better despite already knowing each other in full.

It all went to shit so fast. John didn’t even have time to blink, really.

Relief flooded through him as Gilbert patted his back softly. He spit into the mud a few more times, backing away from the puddle of vomit, before he straightened to his full height next to Gilbert. “Thank God for you, man. I thought I would lose my head just now.”

“I am glad as well,  _ mon ami _ .” Gilbert guided him away by the arm, away from that  _ damned _ torso and to a more cleared area, where the bodies had already been dragged and piled, leaving only stains to reminisce about the lives of the men who had laid there. John rolled his shoulders, stretching out, taking a bit too deep of a breath until his ribs ached from the strain.

“Anyway,” John said. “Where is Alexander? Writing, no doubt. I suspect he killed men with his quill, no?” He raised his eyebrow in amusement.

Gilbert’s smile faltered, quivering at the corners. “ _ Mon lion? _ No, he is with you, yes?”

“What?” John blinked. He suspected a translation error - it wouldn’t be the first time - as he said, “ _ Il est avec vous _ , right? He  _ is _ with you?”

“No, John. No.” Gilbert’s hand tightened on his shoulder. He furrowed his brow, staring into John’s eyes with an unnaturally grave concern. “He went north.  _ Nord, oui?  _ To you. Hours ago.  _ Il est avec  _ vous _ , mon ami _ .”

Both men went rigid. John’s body stilled. His brain stilled. His goddamn  _ everything _ stilled as he gulped and mumbled out, “I haven’t seen him since this morning. Before the battle. At the campsite.” He passed a shaking hand through his hair. “Jesus, that was hours ago.” He began to interrogate himself as to where Alexander could be. What with so many bodies and so many men missing, unsure of what part belongs to whom at this point, Alexander could be counting the bodies, could be writing to congress, could already be at Washington’s side. Or he could be looking for them as well, alone or injured, scared, as scared as John was as his teeth began to chatter in his skull.

Gilbert’s hand tensed tighter. A soft “oh” was all that slipped past his lips as he suddenly glanced up and around soundlessly, eyes scanning the terrain as if he would see Alexander sprout from the ground. John felt weightlessly solid, a hot-and-cold contradiction that burned his heart and froze his fingertips at the same time. He felt as if he were deaf, yet could hear Gilbert’s breaths, could hear the cries of the dying, could hear everything and nothing at the same time and his heart began to beat faster than he could breathe. Gilbert whipped back around, his eyes widening at John’s distress. His other hand clamped on John’s free shoulder and he squeezed in a reassuring manner. “We will find him,  _ mon ami. _ Just you wait, no? Is that what he says? ‘Just you wait.’”

“ _ How? _ ” John’s voice sounded shrill in his ears. He winced. “How? There are hundreds of people unaccounted for, most of them  _ dead _ \--”

And then it hit him.

It  _ throttled  _ him, knocking the wind from his already struggling lungs.

Alexander could be one of those bodies.

Alexander could be  _ dead _ .

Gone. Forever.

Never again would John see those bright eyes light up with an even brighter smile. Never again would he feel those warm hands over his in the depths of winter, a grounded heart for John’s anxieties. Never again would he hear that honeygold laughter, high and light like the clouds. Never again would he smell the scent of the candles that burned to the wick as they half-wrote, half-drank the night away, left a giggling mess for Burr to find some hours later. Never again would he taste--

“Jesus.” John slapped a hand over his mouth. “Jesus Christ, we need to find him. Laf,” He grabbed Gilbert by the arms, his grip paling his knuckles. “Laf, we  _ need _ to find him!”

Gilbert nodded. “We  _ will _ , but we must be calm.  _ L'inquiétude ne nous mènera nulle part. _ ”

“But I  _ am _ anxious, Laf! He could be  _ dead _ ...” John trailed off into a whisper, breathless yet breathing all too fast.

“He is not.” Gilbert shook his head sternly. “He is strong.  _ Tu le sais, _ yes? He is strong.”

“Colonel Laurens!” A voice shouted from across the field. John spun fast. He knew it wasn’t Alexander - the voice was too deep, too old, too fearful - but a small part of him  _ prayed _ for it to be. He squeezed his eyes shut as he turned, and they flew open to a gruff man with a scraggly beard and bloodied clothes. He saluted sloppily. “Colonel Laurens, sir, the general requests you in the medical tent near here, just down the hill. It is regarding an important matter, sir.”

John rushed, “Is it about Alexander?”

“About colonel Hamilton?” Gilbert remedied at the man’s confused face.

The man shook his head. “I’m not sure, sir. I only saw him briefly, in passing.”

John bolted for the hill. He heard Gilbert mutter something, an apology, before his footsteps sped up and he found pace next to John as they jogged. “John, you must be calm!”

“Never mind that!” John screamed back. His face heated with anger. “How can you be so calm? How are you not afraid that Alexander is  _ dead _ or  _ dying _ or is somehow  _ brutally injured _ or, worse, what if he’s one of those body parts--?”

Gilbert wrenched him around by the arm. John squirmed from his grasp. Gilbert held him fast by the wrists and said, “Calm. Please.”

John wriggled. “Unhand me!”

“ _ J'ai peur,  _ John. I am afraid as well. But if  _ notre petit lion _ is hurt, we must be calm.” Gilbert’s hands slid away. “No?”

John hung his head. He took a deep breath past his chapped lips, and released it through his nose, working to quiet his singed nerves. “You’re right.” And he was. He knew. Something deep inside, still hidden from the nightmare, reached out and told him to calm himself. Because Gilbert was right; if Alexander _was_ alive, and _was_ in need of their help, it would do them no good to arrive frantic. 

“I am.” Gilbert snorted. “  _ J'ai toujours raison,  _ I am  _always_ correct.”

“Do not flatter yourself.” John smacked Gilbert's arm playfully. He forced his body to comply with peace, with relaxing. “All right. Let’s go.”

\--

Outside the medical tent, John had expected what he had seen on the field to be there but more compact, more glaringly obvious against stark white sheets and cots. He had expected to be hit with the smell of blood and bile and insides that were now outside. He had, in all honesty, expected to throw up again, his pride be damned. But as he flipped open the flap, he was greeted with silence.

John glanced at Gilbert briefly before shuffling inside.

Indeed, soldiers laid across cots, but their wounds had been bandaged and taken care of, and their agony had been relatively drugged away, leaving them to float blissfully between consciousness and twinges of pain. John glanced down at the faces of the men, noting that they all looked so young, younger than John, that was for sure, and likely younger than Gilbert and Alexander as well. He stared, in a trance, until he felt Gilbert’s hand on his shoulder once again, and a throat cleared a deep voice from across the tent.

John looked up.

Washington sat on a stool by a cot, his legs folded gracefully, his eyes soft with exhaustion but relief. Next to him, sitting upright, relatively unscathed, was Alexander. The petite little Alexander who burned in John’s life like a goddamn beacon, lighting up everything in his path. The warm center to John’s cold exterior, always bringing a heat to melt his enemies. He smiled up at John and Gilbert as they slowly approached, both with dumbfounded expressions.

John took stock of him quickly, looking for injuries, for pain, for any flashes of agony in his face, any twitches of discomfort in his shoulders. Finding nothing but the bruise-like bags under his eyes and a jagged, still bleeding cut above his collarbone, John sighed heavily, audibly, drawing attention to himself.

Washington asked, “Are you all right, Laurens?”

“Likely exhausted. That _was_ a long fight, your excellency.” Alexander raised his brow up at John, a cat-like grin gracing his lips. “Or perhaps relieved to see a familiar face?”

John dropped to his knees. Both Washington and Alexander recoiled slightly, shocked, but when John quickly pulled Alexander into his embrace, Alexander melted to the touch. John couldn’t see Washington, or Gilbert, or even Alexander, really, but he could  _ feel _ Alexander. He could feel his heart speed up against his own. He could feel his hot breaths tickling his ear as he laughed and said, “you’ve gone mad”. He could feel his arms encircle John’s body nonetheless as he continued, “Are you truly all right, John? You usually keep your head.”

“I saw bodies…” John explained softly.

“You have seen  _ many _ bodies.” Alexander chuckled. "This is not our first battle."

John shook his head. He pulled away, only to find Gilbert and Washington standing on the other side of the tent, talking in hushed voices. He hadn’t even heard them rise, let alone speaking. John snapped his attention back to the narrow-eyed Alexander as the younger man seemed to scrutinize him. John continued, “I thought you were _dead_, Alexander. I saw the bodies, the _hundreds_ of bodies, and I...lost control of myself. Only now do I feel calm, because I truly thought you to be one of them.”

“John \--”

“And it is not madness, Alexander!” John tensed when he heard Washington and Gilbert go quiet. He lowered his voice and said, “It is  _ not _ madness to worry for your loved ones on the battlefield. I am allowed my moments of fear, am I not?”

"Of course." Alexander said.

"Then please, do not make light of my relief. I...have no words for the solace I feel at this moment. Allow me a moment to relish, because both of my dearly loved friends are alive and well and I could never be more grateful."

Alexander frowned. “It is madness, dear John, to  _ have _ loved ones on the battlefield.” John opened his mouth to snap back, but Alexander clapped his hand over his lips. “Alas, I apologize. I...shall be more sensitive the next time around.”

When his hand fell, John said, “I pray there will not _be_ a next time, Alexander.” He shifted closer, still on his knees, moving in for another hug. Alexander winced when John pulled him close again, and only then did John quickly remember the bleeding wound on Alexander’s chest, dangerously close to his throat. Irritated, it bled more at Alexander’s movement. John retracted, frowning. “I apologize, my friend. I forgot. How exactly did this happen?” John asked, pointing. He turned, scanning his surroundings for anything to use. He would much prefer _not_ cauterizing such a small injury, but if he had to in order to stave off infection, he would. Underneath the empty cot next to him, a scrawny leather bag sat wrapped up but bulging with supplies. John pulled it close and, opening it, found dozens of loose cloths, medications, and at the bottom, a tiny bag with sewing supplies. Snagging a leftover needle and thread from inside the bag, John held it up to inspect for blood.

  
Alexander watched his every move as he said, “Sword. I believe. Possibly a knife? I’m not too sure.”

“Let me?” John moved to thread the needle.

  
Alexander’s face dropped. “Absolutely not.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“No.” Alexander folded his arms across his chest. “If anyone will be performing a procedure, it will be a doctor. Bless you, Laurens, but are you qualified for this? Qualified with such a dangerous instrument?”

“This instrument,” John wiggled the twig-of-a-needle before Alexander’s nose. “Is a needle. Not a saw. And this wound,” He thumbed at the frayed edges of the injury, and Alexander jerked back, yelping. “Must be closed. Infection may set in, yes? And when was the last time you saw a doctor with the free time to stitch a cut such as this one?”

Alexander shrunk back. “It _has_ been some time…”

“Some time, indeed.” John scooted closer. He grabbed the sides of Alexander’s wound and held it shut. Blood bubbled at the edges. John swallowed his stomach's twist. “Slight pinch.” he mumbled, and poked the needle through the first flap of skin. Alexander inhaled, blinking fast, chest spasming at the sensation. The needle punched through the second piece of skin and John pulled the thread through slowly, bringing it high above his head before he inched his bloodied fingers across the wound and brought the needle back to the beginning for a second bout. “For your information, mister Hamilton, I was practicing to become a physician.”

“You?” Alexander sounded amused, but his voice was high with pain. “A physician? I could never picture it.”

John smiled. “No?”

“Not at all, for mister Laurens, you are likely one of the most squeamish men I have encountered to date.” Alexander thrummed his fingers against his thigh, fighting the sharpness of the needle. "Am I wrong?"

John said, “I _am_ stitching you closed.”

“This is a surface wound. Any man could.” Alexander explained.

John nodded. “Well, you would be right.” He paused and leaned back a bit, admiring his handiwork. Halfway through, and the stitches were clean and tight, only dribbling a bit of blood here and there. It would scar, of course, but it would look better than most. John sighed and continued with his admission, “I had to quit soon into my schooling. I had vomited once I had been handed a real organ; it was a liver, I believe. The whole thing was quite humbling, really.”

“Really?”

“Truly so.” John pulled the needle a bit too hard. Alexander gasped. John grimaced and quickly said, “I apologize. So sorry. Are you all right?”

Alexander nodded tightly. “Yes.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Thank you, John. I...I am grateful to have you.”

John smirked. “I’m quite sure the general would have stitched you if you asked him nicely.”

Alexander shook his head. As John finished the last of the stitches and cut the thread with a tug of his fingers, Alexander took his hand and said, “I mean it, John. I am glad you are my friend. Never have I been blessed with a better man by my side.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am TIRED.
> 
> It's ass. Not my proudest work. I'm exhausted. I have to wake up in like...a few hours. Oh fuck.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Sorry if my depictions of violence made you feel gross because they sure as shit made me uncomfy.
> 
> And sorry for the gay subtext if you're not down with that. What can I say, you read those letters between the two of them, and that's all you can see, honestly. ALSO, Lin did say that he made his Hamilton bisexual. So. I mean I don't ship it, but...it's there if you want it. We stan representing LGBT.


End file.
